by J. D. Robb
“Now that you’ve managed to avoid the question, I’ll repeat it. Why am I here?”
She looked up from his button, into his face. It was always hell for her to admit she could use help. “Feeney’s got to dig into the E-work. He can’t be spared right now. I want another pair of eyes, ears, another impression.”
His lips curved. “So, I’m your second choice.”
“You’re my first civilian choice. You read people well.”
“I’m flattered. And perhaps, while I’m here, I could break Morse’s face for you.”
Her grin came quickly. “I like you, Roarke. I really like you.”
“I like you, too. Is that a yes? I’d enjoy it very much.”
She laughed, but there was a part of her that warmed foolishly over the idea of having an avenger. “It’s a happy thought, Roarke, but I’d really rather break his face myself. At the right time and in the right place.”
“Can I watch?”
“Sure. But for the moment, can you just be the rich and powerful Roarke, my personal trophy?”
“Ah, how sexist. I’m excited.”
“Good. Hold that thought. Maybe we’ll skip the opera after all.”
They walked together through the main entrance, and Roarke had the pleasure of watching her shrug on the cop. She flashed her badge at security, gave him a pithy suggestion that he keep out of her face, then strode toward the ascent.
“I love to watch you work,” he murmured in her ear. “You’re so . . . forceful,” he decided as his hand slid down her back toward her butt.
“Cut it out.”
“See what I mean?” He rubbed his gut where her elbow had jabbed. “Hit me again. I could learn to love it.”
She managed, barely, to turn a chuckle into a snort. “Civilians,” was all she said.
The newsroom was busy, noisy. At least half of the on-desk reporters were plugged into ’links, headsets, or computers. Screens flashed current broadcasts. A number of conversations stopped dead when Eve and Roarke stepped from the ascent. Then, like a horde of dogs with the same scent in their nostrils, reporters scrambled forward.
“Back off,” Eve ordered with enough force to have one eager beaver stumbling backward and stomping on the foot of a cohort. “Nobody gets a comment. Nobody gets squat until I’m ready.”
“If I do buy this place,” Roarke said to Eve in a voice just loud enough to carry, “I’ll have to make several staff cuts.”
That created a swath wide enough to stride through. Eve zeroed in on a face she recognized. “Rigley, where’s Furst?”
“Hey, Lieutenant.” He was all teeth and hair and ambition. “If you’d like to step into my office,” he invited, gesturing toward his console.
“Furst,” she repeated, in a voice like a bullet. “Where?”
“I haven’t seen her all day. I covered her morning report myself.”
“She called in.” Beaming smiles, Morse sauntered over. “Taking some time off,” he explained, and his mobile face shifted to sober lines. “She’s pretty ripped up about Louise. We all are.”
“Is she at home?”
“Said she needed some time, is all I know. Management cut her a break. She’s got a couple of weeks coming. I’m taking over her beat.” His smile flashed again. “So, if you’d like a little airtime, Dallas. I’m your man.”
“I’ve had plenty of your airtime, Morse.”
“Well then.” He dismissed her and shifted toward Roarke. His smile bumped up in wattage. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re a difficult man to contact.”
Deliberately insulting, Roarke ignored Morse’s offered hand. “I only give time to people I consider interesting.”
Morse lowered his hand, but kept his smile in place. “I’m sure if you spared me a few minutes, I’d find several areas of interest for you.”
Roarke’s smile flashed, quick and lethal. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you.”
“Down, boy,” Eve murmured, patting Roarke’s arm. “Who leaked confidential data?”
Morse was obviously struggling to recover his dignity. He veered his gaze to hers and nearly managed an arrogant sneer. “Now, now, sources are protected. Let’s not forget the Constitution.” Patriotically, he laid his palm over his heart. “Now, if you wish to comment on, contradict, or add to any of my information, I’d be more than happy to listen.”
“Why don’t we try this?” she said, shifting gears. “You found Louise Kirski’s body—while it was still warm.”
“That’s right.” He folded his mouth into grim lines. “I’ve given my statement.”
“You were pretty upset, weren’t you? Jittery. Shot your dinner in the bushes. Feeling better now?”
“It’s something I’ll never forget, but yes, I’m feeling better. Thanks for asking.”
She stepped forward, backing him up. “You felt good enough to go on air within minutes, to make sure there was a camera out there getting a nice close-up of your dead associate.”
“Immediacy is part of the business. I did what I was trained to do. That doesn’t mean I didn’t feel.” His voice trembled and was manfully controlled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t see her face, her eyes, every time I try to sleep at night.”
“Did you ever wonder what would have happened if you’d gotten there five minutes sooner?”
That jarred him, and though she knew it was nasty, and personal, it pleased her.
“Yes, I have,” he said with dignity. “I might have seen him or stopped him. Louise might be alive if I hadn’t been caught in traffic. But that doesn’t change the facts. She’s dead, and so are two others. And you don’t have anyone in custody.”
“Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you that you’re feeding him. That you’ve given him just what he wants.” She took her gaze from Morse long enough to scan the room and all the people who were listening eagerly. “He must love watching all the reports, hearing all the details, the speculation. You’ve made him the biggest star on the screen.”
“It’s our responsibility to report—” Morse began.
“Morse, you don’t know shit about responsibility. All you know is how to count the minutes you’re on air, front and center. The more people die, the bigger your ratings. You can quote me on that one.” She turned on her heel.
“Feel better?” Roarke asked her when they were outside again.
“Not a hell of a lot. Impressions?”
“The newsroom’s in turmoil, too many people doing too many things. They’re all jumpy. The one you talked to initially about Nadine?”
“Rigley. He’s a little fish. I think they hired him for his teeth.”
“He’s been biting his nails. There were several others who looked ashamed when you made your little speech. They turned away, got very busy, but they weren’t doing anything. Several more looked quietly pleased when you took a couple layers off Morse. I don’t believe he’s well liked.”
“Big surprise.”
“He’s better than I’d thought,” Roarke mused.
“Morse? At what? Slinging shit?”
“Image,” Roarke corrected. “Which is often the same thing. He pulls out all those emotions. He doesn’t feel any of them, but he knows how to make them play over his face, in his voice. He’s in the right field and will definitely move up.”
“God help us.” She leaned against Roarke’s car. “Do you think he knows more than he’s put on air?”
“I think it’s possible. Highly possible. He’s enjoying stringing this out, particularly now that he’s in charge of the story. And he hates your guts.”
“Oh, now I’m hurt.” She started to open the door, then turned back. “Hates me?”
“He’ll ruin you if he can. Watch yourself.”
“He can make me look foolish, but he can’t ruin me.” She wrenched the door open. “Where the hell is Nadine? It’s not like her, Roarke. I understand how she feels about Louise, but it’s not like her to take off, not to tell me, to hand a story thi
s size to that bastard.”
“People react in different ways to shock and grief.”
“It’s stupid. She was a target. She could still be a target. We have to find her.”
“Is that your way of squirming out of the opera?”
Eve got in the car, stretched out her legs. “No, that’s just a little side benefit. Let’s run by her place, okay? She’s on Eightieth between Second and Third.”
“All right. But you have no excuse to squirm out of the cocktail party tomorrow night.”
“Cocktail party? What cocktail party?”
“The one I arranged fully a month ago,” he reminded her as he slipped in beside her. “To kick off the fund-raiser for the Art Institute on Station Grimaldi. Which you agreed to attend and to help host.”
She remembered, all right. He’d brought home some fancy dress she was supposed to wear. “Wasn’t I drunk when I agreed? The word of a drunk is worthless.”
“No, you weren’t.” He smiled as he skimmed from the visitors’ lot. “You were, however, naked, panting, and I believe very close to begging.”
“Bull.” Actually, she thought, folding her arms, he may have been right. The details were hazy. “Okay, okay, I’ll be there, I’ll be there with a stupid smile in some fancy dress that cost you too much money for too little material. Unless . . . something comes up.”
“Something?”
She sighed. He only asked her to do one of his silly gigs when it was important to him. “Police business. Only if it’s urgent police business. Barring that, I’ll stick for the whole fussy mess.”
“I don’t suppose you could try to enjoy it?”
“Maybe I could.” She turned her head and on impulse lifted a hand to his cheek. “A little.”
chapter eighteen
No one answered the buzzer at Nadine’s door. The recording requested simply that the caller leave a message, which would be returned at the earliest possible time.
“She could be in there brooding,” Eve mused, rocking on her heels as she considered. “Or she could be at some tony resort. She slipped her guard plenty over the past few days. She’s a slick one, our Nadine.”
“And you’ll feel better if you know.”
“Yeah.” Brow furrowed, Eve considered using her police emergency code to bypass security. She didn’t have enough cause, and she balled her hands in her pockets.
“Ethics,” Roarke said. “It’s always an education to watch you struggle with them. Let me help you out.” He took out a small pocket knife and pried open the handplate.
“Jesus, Roarke, tampering with security will get you six months house arrest.”
“Um-hmm.” Calmly, he studied the circuits. “I’m a bit out of practice. We make this model, you know.”
“Put that damn thing back together, and don’t—”
But he was already bypassing the main board, working with a speed and efficiency that made her wince.
“Out of practice, my butt,” she mumbled when the lock light went from red to green.
“I always had a knack.” The door slid open, and he tugged her inside.
“Security tampering, breaking and entering, private property trespass. Oh, it’s just mounting up.”
“But you’ll wait for me, won’t you?” With one hand still on Eve’s arm, he studied the living area. It was clean, cool, spare in furnishings, but with an expensive minimalistic style.
“She lives well,” he commented, noting the gleam on the tile floor, the few objects d’art on spearing clear pedestals. “But she doesn’t come here often.”
Eve knew he had a good eye, and nodded. “No, she doesn’t really live here, just sleeps here sometimes. There’s nothing out of place, no dents in the cushions.” She walked past him toward the adjoining kitchen, punched the available menu on the AutoChef. “Doesn’t keep a lot of food on hand, either. Mostly cheese and fruit.”
Eve thought about her empty stomach, was tempted, but resisted. She headed out across the wide living space toward a bedroom. “Office,” she stated, studying the equipment, the console, the wide screen it faced. “She lives here some. Shoes under the console, single earring by the link, empty cup, probably coffee.”
The second bedroom was larger, the sheets on the unmade bed twisted as if someone had wrapped and unwrapped themselves through a particularly long night.
Eve spotted the suit Nadine had been wearing on the night of Louise’s murder on the floor, kicked under a table where a vase of daisies wilted.
They were signs of pain, and they made her sorry. She walked to the closet and hit the button to open it. “Christ, how could you tell if she packed anything? She’s got enough clothes for a ten-woman model troupe.”
Still, she looked through them while Roarke moved to the bedside ’link and ran the record disc back to the beginning. Eve glanced over her shoulder, saw what he was up to. She only moved her shoulders.
“Might as well completely invade her privacy.”
Eve continued to search for some sign that Nadine had gone off on a trip while the calls and messages played back.
She listened with some amusement to some frank sexual byplay between Nadine and some man named Ralph. There were a lot of innuendos, overt suggestions, and laughter before the transmission ended with a promise to get together when he got into town.
Other calls breezed by: work-oriented, a call to a nearby restaurant for delivery. Ordinary, everyday calls. Then it changed.
Nadine was speaking to the Kirskis the day after the last murder. All of them were weeping. Maybe there was comfort in it, Eve thought as she walked toward the viewer. Maybe sharing tears and shock helped.
I don’t know if it matters right now, but the primary investigator, Dallas—Lieutenant Dallas—she won’t stop until she finds out who did this to Louise. She won’t stop.
“Oh, man.” Eve closed her eyes as the transmission ended. There was nothing more, just blank disc, and she opened her eyes again. “Where’s the call to the station?” she demanded. “Where’s the call? Morse said she called in and requested time off.”
“Could have done it from her car, from a portable. In person.”
“Let’s find out.” She whipped out her communicator. “Feeney. I need make, model, and ID number on Nadine Furst’s vehicle.”
It didn’t take long to access the data or to read the garage inventory and discover her car had been logged out the day before and hadn’t been returned.
“I don’t like it.” Eve fretted as she sat back in Roarke’s car. “She’d have left me a message. She’d have left word. I need to talk to some brass at the station, find out who took her call.” She started to key it into Roarke’s car ’link, then stopped. “One other thing.” Taking out her log, she requested a different number. “Kirski, Deborah and James, Portland, Maine.” The number beeped on, and she transferred it to the ’link. It was answered quickly by a pale-haired woman with exhausted eyes.
“Mrs. Kirski, this is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I remember you. Is there any news?”
“There’s nothing I can tell you right now. I’m sorry.” Damn it, she had to give the woman something. “We’re pursuing some new information. We’re hopeful, Mrs. Kirski.”
“We said good-bye to Louise today.” She struggled to smile. “It was a comfort to see how many people cared for her. So many of her friends from school, and there were flowers, messages from everyone she worked with in New York.”
“She won’t be forgotten, Mrs. Kirski. Could you tell me if Nadine Furst attended the memorial today?”
“We expected her.” The swollen eyes looked lost a moment. “I’d spoken with her at her office only a few days ago to give her the date and time of the services. She said she would be here, but something must have come up.”
“She didn’t make it.” A sour feeling spread in Eve’s stomach. “You haven’t heard from her?”
“No, not for a few days. She’s a very busy woman, I kno
w. She has to get on with her life, of course. What else can she do?”
Eve could offer no comfort without adding worry. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kirski. If you have any questions or need to speak with me, please call. Anytime.”
“You’re very kind. Nadine said you wouldn’t stop until you’d found the man who did this to my girl. You won’t stop, will you, Lieutenant Dallas?”
“No, ma’am, I won’t.” She broke transmission, let her head fall back, closed her eyes. “I’m not kind. I didn’t call her to say I was sorry, but because she might have given me an answer.”
“But you were sorry.” Roarke closed his hand gently over hers. “And you were kind.”
“I can count the people who mean something to me without coming close to double digits. The same with the people I mean something to. If he’d have come after me, like the bastard was supposed to, I would have dealt with him. And if I hadn’t—”
“Shut up.” His hand vised over hers with a force that had her muffling a yelp, and his eyes were fierce and angry. “Just shut up.”
Absently, she nursed her hand as he raced along the street. “You’re right, I’m doing it wrong. I’m taking it in, and that doesn’t help anything. Too much emotion on the case,” she murmured, remembering the chief’s warning. “I started out today thinking clean, and that’s what I’ve got to keep doing. Next step is to find Nadine.”
She called Dispatch and ordered an all points on the woman and her vehicle.
Calmer, with the twist of her earlier words unraveling in his gut, he slowed, glanced at her. “How many homicide victims have you stood for in your illustrious career, Lieutenant?”
“Stood for? That’s an odd way of putting it.” She moved her shoulders, trying to focus her mind on a man in a long, dark coat with a shiny new car. “I don’t know. Hundreds. Murder never goes out of style.”
“Then I’d say you’re well past the double digits, on both sides. You need to eat.”
She was too hungry to argue with him.
“The trouble with the cross-check is Metcalf’s diary,” Feeney explained. “It’s full of cutesy little codes and symbols. And she changes them, so we can’t work a pattern. We’ve got names like Sweet Face, Hot Buns, Dumb Ass. We got initials, we got stars, hearts, little smiley faces or scowly faces. It’ll take time, and lots of it, to cross it with the copy of Nadine’s or the prosecutor’s.”